


And The Weather

by Jenwryn



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Nothing fancy,” Ginny says, and she can feel Hermione smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Weather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tehfanglyfish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tehfanglyfish).



> A big thanks goes out to Tierfal, for her help. ♥
> 
> Anyways, really, this is much more like what the weather is where I am right now. No snowy Christmas Eve for me, my friends; we're close to 40°C over here. Not that this story is set in Australia, but it certainly isn't set any place cold. ;)

_Branches are bare with a pulse underneath  
Flowering slowly inside  
Your hands are warm and my body is wide  
To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark and stars_

~ Stars, The Weepies.

*

It's one of those days, the kind that can only be described as lethargic. Ginny is resting on the floor of the library, her head against her hands. Hermione is sitting cross-legged at a bench, shoulders bent over a parchment, murmuring a cooling spell with listless regularity. The air is hot, almost sultry; the innate chill of the library is failing in its battle against the weather beyond the walls. Ginny picks damp strands of hair from her face as she stands up and wanders restlessly around the room. She looks at a vase here, reads the spine of a book there, stands for a moment or two in front of a statue of Saraswati, goddess of wisdom, who's gazing serenely back at her from the wall between two bookshelves.

Hermione is conscious of her girlfriend moving. She puts her quill to her lips, hand poised carefully, so as to not leave sweaty marks upon her parchment, and concentrates on Ginny. Hermione doesn't even need to turn, to visualise the redhead in her mind's eye, but she _does_ turn, regardless; simply because she's growing weary of the Vedic Sanskrit. Simply because she likes the way that Ginny walks, likes the motion of Ginny's hips, likes the way Ginny's hair swings around her face, as Ginny considers what she's seeing.

Ginny turns from Saraswati to Hermione, and grins a grin that begins somewhere in her eyelashes and spreads until it reaches her freckles, crumpled up by the corners of her lips. Hermione puts the quill down and closes her eyes. She can feel the heat of Ginny's body, as Ginny walks to her; knows that she's moving in her direction, even though the girl's footsteps are so soft that she cannot hear them. Their bodies emanate warmth in this weather, warmth and sweat and sticky skin, and suddenly Hermione really has worked enough today. “Everyone else is out,” she says, voice low beneath the heat of the air. “The librarian said she wouldn't be back until midnight, and I know the others are in town.”

They've been together three months now, and Ginny doesn't need a more direct invitation to lean in and brush damp curls away from Hermione's face. “It's hot,” the redhead says; a fact, a complaint, perhaps even a simple explanation. She tips Hermione's chin upwards with a thumb, and covers Hermione's lips with her own.

Hermione breathes in the taste of her. She leans her forehead in against Ginny's and says, slow-spoken, as if her words were born of time itself, “You know what I've been thinking? I've been thinking you should cut my hair.”

Ginny has cut her brothers' hair, has helped cut her mother's hair, has even suggested to Hermione, quite some time ago, that she'd be happy to help out in this respect. Back then, Hermione had frowned and declared that there wasn't a chance of it.

Now Ginny raises her eyebrows.

Hermione laughs, and it's as though the sluggish air around them is pushed just a little into life. Her eyes are bright, her mouth amused. “I wouldn't suggest it, if I didn't mean it.”

They shift away from the parchments. White light flows from beneath the weight of a heavy tapestry. Ginny's movements with her wand are swift but careful, each sway a deliberate cut at damp-dark curls, crisp snips, sending them tumbling to the cool stone floor.

“Nothing fancy,” Ginny says, and she can feel Hermione smile.

Then Hermione's neck is bare, and then the contour of curls is neatened; is brought into a sweet line tracing from beneath one of Hermione's ear, with careful symmetry, to beneath the other. Ginny brushes her fingertips at her girlfriend's bare neck. Ginny waves her wand, murmuring, and the fallen hair vanishes from the floor – long locks that had already begun to look forlorn on the stone, lacklustre, without the light of Hermione to give them life.

Hermione conjures up a mirror and considers her reflection earnestly, eyebrows high and curious. She doesn't say anything, except with her smile. Ginny meets her gaze in the glass, and puts her lips on Hermione's neck; chaste kiss, then open lips, warm tongue. Hermione turns into the touch, hands pulling Ginny against her, closer, closer; heat in the curve of a knee and the press of palms to shoulder-blades.

And the weather sways around them, treacle heavy, undulating, heat against skin, and the cool of the stones beneath a discarded skirt.


End file.
